


soul doubling

by twistedly



Category: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Book 03: Oathbringer, F/M, Gen, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedly/pseuds/twistedly
Summary: One day, she says: ‘Draw with me.’
Relationships: Shallan Davar & Kaladin, Shallan Davar/Kaladin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17





	soul doubling

**Author's Note:**

> You, my soul doubling, the best terror I’ve known.
> 
> — Traci Brimhall

He’s been watching her draw for a while now, in one of the many disused rooms in a place once considered mythological and now all around them, all stone and history: visceral, somehow, in a way that Jah Keved and Kharbranth have never been to her. It’s a sensation of being out of time as well as steeped in it, simultaneously, unnervingly. (Gloriously.)

She draws the way she used to before her drawings became weapons. They still are, outside this room; they always will be, now, outside this room.

They don’t agree on times to meet, but he’s there more often than not anyway. He doesn’t bring strawberry jam or crusty bread. He brings nothing except himself, the weight of his familiarity settling over her like clouds in which a highstorm is brewing, bright with the promise of Stormlight. 

One day, she says: ‘Draw with me.’

He looks up from his book—he reads here, secretly, with only her as a witness—and raises his eyebrows.

‘You talking to me?’

She rolls her eyes.

‘No,’ he says, serious, puzzled. ‘I mean… me?’

‘Yes,’ she says, allowing her face to soften. Less teasing, more involved. She holds out a soft pencil with her freehand.

He takes it. His expression is a little blank now. 

She’s come to understand what it means.

Their fingers brush. Neither of them pulls away from that slightest of contacts. It’s very different from when her fingers had encountered Kabsal’s, or even Adolin’s. There’s no undercurrent of something _expected_ this time, no anticipated thrill of a touch that is ostensibly forbidden but secretly encouraged by social norms.

 _Touch him_ , those norms say. _Let him touch you back._

Everything that the norms—that word that’s engendered that other terrible word, _normal_ —say is tested by this person sitting beside her now. There’s warmth in that fleeting touch of skin on skin. There’s familiarity. (The kind that can only be bred by sharing experiences that are forever beyond the reach of language.)

He attends wordlessly to the task she’s assigned him. _Wordless_. What a strong, comforting thought.

 _The things we’ll do together_ , she thinks, with an unexpected certainty. 

(Somewhere, unseen, she senses Pattern hum in agreement.)


End file.
